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Posted on June 12, 2014 at 03:04:36 PM by WolfieG
Oh how she hated him. Despise, disgust, abomination, so many words poured through her mind as my delicate little bone-child wanders as silent as a wraith through the frost covered woodscape. She would not forgive him, even now her mind is haunted with the memories of how he had dominated her, taken from her what he wanted without so much as an explanation to the wiser. Ivory fangs grind together behind ash dusted lips as a single dial bends back, well, perhaps she had asked for it in a sense. She had defied him from the moment he placed his mark of claim upon her but hell why wouldn't she? He didn't even feel the desire to offer any sort of greeting. He wouldn't even know her name had she not told him in a fit of rage. Paperthin nostrils flare again as my proudling snorts defiantly and stamps her foreleg in irritation, god help him when her wrath came down. Yet it moved. A resounding kick well placed beneath her ribcage left her breathless and desperate for air. "it" was coming... and soon. Since first she had felt the parasite growing inside her move she had known that the painted brute had taken something from her, far more than the innocence she had lost as a child when the wolves attacked. He had forced himself upon her and in turn tied her to him with binds that slowly grew with each month as her alabaster sides heaved with child. His spawn. Silver whipcord lashed against her swollen barrel in annoyance as once more my ghostly wraith disappears beneath the sheltering branches of thick conifers and traces the path she has come to know so well to the secluded clearing. She had stumbled upon it not long after fleeing from Soljor's grasp, longing only to be free of his prying gaze and solid mass. In size and weight, there was no doubt who the victor would have been and yet still she sought to defy him as some sort of penance for his sin. The sin of daring to claim her. And yet here she was the one sulking around like some wounded dog licking her wounds. His time would come. She would hate this child, hate it as she hated him. *Kick*... *pain* It comes upon her again and draws her to a sudden halt as the jolts of pain course through every fiber of her being. She has been alone most of her life and never a mother and yet instinctively she knows what is happening. Ashen nostrils flare as she breathes through yet another contraction while continuing to pace circles around her hidden sanctuary, stopping only when the wave hit her time and time again until they were close enough together that she dare not move a since inch. Only then does she find her knees buckling beneath her and breathlessly she lets her body gingerly fall upon the soft grasses of new growth. Hours pass that feel like centuries in the mind of my young bone-child. Pain, waves of pain and a blurring of vision... but it does not last forever. Soon it is over and Cut Up Angel finds herself rising on shaking legs to turn and stare at the trembling wet bundle that lay at her feet. A child. Voidless black eyes stare for a moment in wonder and curiosity at the painted wet mass at her feet, watching as the willful child kicked and squirmed to free itself from the sack within which it had been born. Cut Up Angel told herself she wanted to hate this child, a foal forced upon her by a stallion whom she saw as nothing more than a monsterous brute and yet here she was fascinated by the sheer will the creature demonstrated. A will to survive. Slowly, my silverling lowers her head to the child, blackened lips tenderly drawing away the bloodied sack and tossing it aside. Almost immediately the child began to struggle to rise and after only a few tries, it does indeed manage to stand on four wobbly feet. Despite her initial hatred for the small foal, CUA found herself smiling softly in a sense of pride as she stared in amazement at the rather beautiful black and white painted filly. Though her coloring mirrored that of her sire, she had the delicate curves and contours that spoke of her mother's Arabic heritage. A true beauty. Pride glinted fiercely in my little bone-child's eyes as she took a single, tentative step towards the child, her own small muzzle bending to gently bump the filly, guiding her to her side where instinctively the child clamps onto a single teat. "Harliquin.." she murmurs quietly, a name befitting the rage in which the child was conceived and yet the beauty that brought forth. Harliquin. the stars have fallen and the sky weeps picture copyright Storm-Skyrus @ deviantart 
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